


The Care He Deserves

by Processpending



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Belly Rubs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt cares, Geraskier, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurities, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain, body issues, chubby jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Processpending/pseuds/Processpending
Summary: When Geralt notices the toll traveling with him has taken on Jaskier, he decides he's going to give the bard the life he deserves.If it weren’t for his damned singing, Geralt would think there was a skeleton in the lake.The witcher frowns at Jaskier where he stands in the lake, rivlets of water streaming down his too thin form from where he’d surged through the water, scanning the bank for Geralt.“Geralt!” Jaskier’s smile splits his face but all Geralt sees is the sharp jawline, skin stretched over bones, his frown deepening. “Is there a monster in the lake?”“Hmm...No.” Geralt finishes when Jaskier gives him a look that distinctly reminds him to use your words. Except Geralt can’t use his words because he’s the monster in the lake.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 67
Kudos: 441
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

If it weren’t for his damned singing, Geralt would think there was a skeleton in the lake.

The Witcher frowns at Jaskier where he stands in the lake, rivlets of water streaming down his too thin form from where he’d surged through the water, scanning the bank for Geralt. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s smile splits his face but all Geralt sees is the sharp jawline, skin stretched over bones, his frown deepening. “Geralt?” When this only serves to get the Witcher stalking towards him Jaskier’s voice swiftly changes from question to panic, “Is there a monster in the lake?” In a feat the Witcher has only seen performed by supernatural creatures, Jaskier runs across the water at him, Geralt’s outstretched arm the only thing keeping him from continuing up the bank and onto Roach who would not appreciate the impromptu shower. 

“Hmm...No.” Geralt finishes when Jaskier gives him a look that distinctly reminds him to _use your words._ Except Geralt can’t use his words because he’s the monster in the lake.

o~O~o

After that day in the lake Geralt kills more monsters, taking on ones that are just enough of a nuisance to townspeople that in addition to coin he can request room and meals with little resistance. If Jaskier notices Geralt’s sudden uptick in finding work or the insistence they sleep in an inn and he eat no less than two meals a day he doesn’t question it. 

It’s a month into his plan that Geralt notices Jaskier’s gained weight, the bard’s collar bone softening from the sharp juts they’d become and his fingers no longer tripped down the rungs of Jaskier’s ribs when he pulls him close; a feeling Geralt loves so much he does it again and again and again.

“Not that I don’t enjoy you petting me, but I thought we were going to have sex.” Jaskier frowns at Geralt’s caress, wondering what has his Witcher so enthralled. He’d noticed his ribs were less prominent, it was hard not to when the washboard feeling he got when trying to bathe stopped. 

“Noticed too huh? Can’t do your laundry on me anymore not that _you_ do it anyway.” Geralt’s eyes flash, the reminder of how careless he’d gotten with Jaskier paining him. He’ll do better, but for tonight, he’ll show his bard how hard he’s trying.

o~O~o

“Am I dying?” The words bring Geralt up short, his eyes flashing gold in his sudden panic. “I just mean, you never let me ride Roach. I’ve been stabbed, delirious with blood loss and you still made me walk to the next village.” All this comes from above where Jaskier is perched about Roach, watching as the Witcher moves around the horse, ensuring their travel bags are secured.

In truth, Geralt realized that the little bit of extra he was managing to get into Jaskier was being eaten up by all the walking he was forced to do between towns, the bit of padding that had covered his ribs melting between one stop and the next.

The weight of Jaskier’s gaze tells Geralt he’s not getting out of answering this, his fingers slowing as he forces himself to meet the bard’s eyes. His mouth opens, but he can’t bring himself to explain how he’s failed him once again, that for all their love, he knows he’s not providing the life Jaskier deserves. So instead he growls, “No,” and frowns. 

Jaskier understands there’s something going on with his Witcher, even if he can’t figure out what. Yet.

o~O~o

“You may have to carry me to bed.” Jaskier groans, shoving the second scraped clean plate of pie away as he slumps back, folding his hands over his stomach in contentment. He’d written an ode to the dessert after the first bite and Geralt knew an opportunity when he saw one and ordered him a second piece.

Geralt’s raised eyebrow has Jaskier quickly backtracking, “Walking might be better,” Geralt’s resounding _hmm_ has Jaskier’s cheeks pinking, knowing the bard’s squirrely nature when pressed. “Settle things.” Geralt’s mouth twitches and Jaskier knows to move quickly.

The tavern is uncomfortably crowded for Geralt’s taste, seems most of the town is trying to fit itself within the four walls. Jaskier makes little progress trying to move through the room, grateful when Geralt shoulders past, the bard cradling his belly protectively, feeling like he looks heavily pregnant though his belly barely bows out. 

Geralt whips around at a pained yip from Jaskier, finding the bard doubled over, one hand braced on a table while the other clutches his stomach. Jaskier’s head snaps up when a familiar growl cuts through the room, “ _Mmm_.”

“No! No, it was an accident. I ran into this fine gentleman’s elbow actually.” Jaskier would be more convincing if his words weren’t breathy from pain. Golden eyes catch the flickering firelight as they survey the room that’s holding its collective breath.

Jaskier tries to straighten when Geralt beckons him over, knowing it wouldn’t be nearly this painful if he hadn’t stuffed himself. He staggers the few steps to where Geralt waits, the Witcher wrapping a protective arm around his thickening waist, letting out an appreciative noise at the feel, forcing the crowd to part for them. 

Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier braces his hand in front of the tender swell protectively but his sharp look at those around them prevent any from coming near enough to even brush them as they pass.

No sooner has the door to their room closed than Geralt is working at Jaskier’s tunic. “Woah! What?” Jaskier is no match for the larger man, especially when he has intent and normally he wouldn’t protest Geralt undressing him, but it was unusual for the Witcher to be rough.

“Let me see.” _Oh_. Geralt will not be assuaged until he confirms his bard has no lasting damage, though he seriously doubts he got internal bleeding from a stray elbow, he knows this is how Geralt shows he cares. Jaskier stills, only voicing protest when Geralt snaps the fastenings rather than slipping them free, frowning down at the slight outward bow of his belly but any concern he had were distracted by Geralt’s mouth upon the abused spot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wasn't one to show affection in public unless you counted ensuring Jaskier didn't get eaten by monsters or pummeled by villagers, but when they were alone Geralt ensured that Jaskier knew he was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I now have reason to say this: If you don't like, don't read. If you absolutely can't refrain from saying something unbecoming, make it worth my read. I'm talking Dead Poets Society level insults.

Jaskier knew he wasn’t going to make it through another town without buying new clothes, his doublet getting snugger with each inn they stayed at. He was silently cursing his stubbornness as he tried to discretely adjust his pants lower, the pinch becoming unbearable. 

It’s not an easy feat upon Roach with Geralt behind him but Jaskier finally manages to inch his pants down far enough the motion of Roach eases them the rest of the way off his hips. The sheer relief Jaskier feels is nearly palpable as he settles back against Geralt.

Geralt was quickly growing tired of Jaskier’s endless shifting, though it was so unlike the bard the fear that he might be ill creeps into the Witcher’s mind, weighing his tongue against complaint. Jaskier suddenly slumps back, the soft sigh escaping his lips has Geralt instinctively wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist, fearing he’s going to slide off Roach. 

Being intimately familiar with how Jaskier’s clothes fit Geralt is surprised when his fingers brush skin. Jaskier stiffens at the touch, pausing mid breath as though Geralt were a predator he was hoping to avoid detection from.

Settling his arm, heavy and warm across the top of Jaskier’s thighs, he finds himself with a handful of the man’s belly. _"Hmm_.” Geralt’s pleased to find the meals seem to be sticking to his bard, though the next towns should offer plenty in the means of shelter and food, Geralt knows neither of those things is ever a guarantee.

Jaskier has spent _years_ learning Geralt’s _hmm_ s but this one leaves him unsure. He waits for nearly a mile, expecting with each step for Geralt to halt Roach and demand he walk until he was lithe again if he didn’t outright send him away. But the miles passed and Geralt seems perfectly happy to leave his hand right where it is, his thumb absently rubbing a small circle on Jaskier’s stomach.

“You’re not—” Jaskier catches himself before he can do something incredibly senseless like volunteer the idea that Geralt should leave him, but he started a sentence and the Witcher will know something is wrong if he doesn’t finish it, something he believed Jaskier physically incapable of doing. “Concerned we won’t make the next town by sundown?” 

“Afraid we’ll have to camp?” Even though Geralt’s behind him, Jaskier can hear the taunt in the words.

“ _You’re_ the one insisting we stay at inns.” Jaskier protests, the doubt too far burrowed that Geralt won’t find his softer self flawed. Geralt’s only response is to pull Jaskier back into him, his hold briefly tightening. 

Jaskier spends the rest of the ride devising a plan; he’ll eat less and this will be the _only_ time he’ll buy new clothes for reasons other than wearing out or monster blood. 

Hours pass by the time they make it into town and Jaskier’s resolve is wavering as they head into the inn, lunch having been pieces of dried meat and nuts Geralt passed him by the handful as they continued. 

Jaskier follows Geralt through the crowded room, eyeing the corner that looks set for performers, gauging the crowd as he distracts his mind with what songs he’ll play rather than what he wants to eat. Experience telling them the delicious smells filling the tavern means this is one of those family inns where the food is hearty and plentiful, knowledge that weakens Jaskier’s resolution even more.

He _has_ to play tonight if he intends to save his dignity and pay for new clothes with his own coin. 

Geralt turns and finds Jaskier staring into the tavern, a blush staining his softening cheeks. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier’s head snaps to Geralt, “Not much of a crowd tonight.” Geralt frowns, the room is fairly full, a few tables completely taken while others have only a seat or two to spare.

The thought of having to explain just why he needed the coin to his Witcher burns shame through Jaskier, imagining Geralt’s eyes dropping until they settled on the soft curve of his stomach, the disgust that would twist his face. 

Geralt knows his bard isn’t telling him something but since he doesn’t smell blood from an injury on him, he doesn't press, Melitele knows he’s waited him out before.

Jaskier heads for one of the tables tucked into the darker corners, knowing it’s where Geralt prefers, his enhanced senses making it easy for him to keep an eye and ear on Jaskier despite the distance. They’ve barely sat before a barmaid is bustling up, a tankard of ale in each hand, the liquid sloshing over the sides as she sets them on the table.

“What’ll it be?” Jaskier watches Geralt turn to her, after all these years he finds his insecurities mounting, fearing tonight will be the night Geralt beds someone else. Jaskier barely registers Geralt ordering two of the night’s special for him, his protest coming out more of a yelp, “ _No!”_

Golden eyes blink, narrowing as they study him. Geralt checks again, wondering if he’s missed something but nothing smells off about his bard and he doesn’t look flushed with fever. Jaskier knows the look Geralt is giving him, something he complains about but secretly relishes this silent show of love. 

When no further protest follows the confused barmaid turns back to Geralt, hands on her hips as she waits for their final requests. “Three.” Geralt doesn’t take his eyes from Jaskier, the weight of that golden gaze enough to keep even Jaskier’s untamable tongue cowed.

Jaskier takes his time with his first plate, hoping if he draws it out long enough he can avoid eating the second in favor of having to play. Years on the road have ingrained in Jaskier’s mind that food is a luxury not to be wasted, that combined with weeks of ever increasing meal sizes finds the bard still hungry after the first plate. 

The only indication Geralt is pleased when Jaskier pulls the second bowl of stew closer, cracking open another hunk of still steaming bread, is a twitch of his lips that Jaskier agonizes over with every bite. 

Jaskier can’t parse Geralt’s actions, smirking when he digs into the second bowl that _he_ ordered for him. Jaskier’s relieved when calls for entertainment begin to fill the room, using the last of his bread to sop up the remaining stew Jaskier turns his thoughts to his songs, re-configuring now that he’s got a better sense of the room. 

Standing makes Jaskier regret the second bowl of stew sitting heavy in his stomach as though he’d eaten stones instead of bread. “Mmph.” He grunts as he bends to retrieve his lute, catching Geralt’s measuring gaze as he straightens, rather than having to explain yet another embarrassment he begins picking his way through the crowd calling, “A song you say?” 

If Jaskier thought bending over was uncomfortable it’s nothing compared to trying to sing with his protesting stomach, he’s certain with each new line his dinner will make a reappearance. His lute pressing uncomfortably against his belly, but it’s the same hold he’s used since he learned to play and the slightest adjustment puts his fingers off their stride, raising Geralt’s concern. 

Jaskier sings song after song, earning more than enough coin for new clothes; until his stomach is fully settled and he’s certain even Geralt’s hearing won’t pick up the faint grumblings of his stomach. With a flourish he leaves the small stage tucked in the corner, knowing it’s better to leave them wanting more and return the next night. 

Smiling triumphantly Jaskier finds Geralt’s gaze over the seated heads between them, pleased with the fair bit of coin he’d managed. Jaskier prided himself on contributing to their funds, however meager it might be, he knew Geralt didn’t care but it mattered to him. However that smile falters when he reaches the table moments before a bowl of warm spiced apples drizzled with sweet cream is set in his place, Geralt not sparing the dish a glance letting Jaskier knew exactly who he had to thank.

“You were popular tonight.” It’s a high compliment coming from the Witcher and one Jaskier would normally preen over, prompting him to say it again and again. Right now though his focus is on the apples and _why_ exactly they’re gracing his spot. 

“Didn’t fancy you one for sweets.” Jaskier aims to deflect but the words are undermined by his traitorous stomach growling at the heavenly smell of them, made all the more alluring by the curls of steam rising from the dish. 

“ _Mmm_.” Jaskier slips into the chair, feeling the stares he’s drawing lingering next to the table but the move only serves to put him closer to the apples setting his mouth watering. It was a rare thing for them to indulge, the last time had been pie but that was towns ago. 

Jaskier's already weakened willpower is easy to convince as he reasons he’s buying new clothes tomorrow anyway and it has been _towns,_ fiddling with his fork as he wars with himself, “Share it with me?” Jaskier pronounces the idea as it comes to him, his nimble fingers flipping around the utensil in an offering to Geralt. The Witcher hesitates but reasons that if this is what it takes to get Jaskier to eat he can stomach a few bites. 

It’s barely half a slice of apple but Jaskier doesn’t dare protest, surprised the ploy worked at all. Jaskier is scraping the last of the delectable dessert from the bowl when his stomach jumps with a hiccup, the first one surprises him, fork clattering in the dish as he tries to stifle the groan of pain that threatens to follow. Geralt’s head tilts, studying the man across from him, taking in the cheeks stained pink and the bracing hand resting on his now prominent stomach. 

Before he can ask what ails the man another hiccup assaults Jaskier, the jolting motion sending a bolt of pain through his already aching belly, making it much harder to stifle his pained groan. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt looks a hairs breadth away from collecting the bard in his arms and demanding directions to the nearest healer, the one thing Jaskier knows would make this whole situation worse. 

“Just not...hic” Jaskier bites down on the pain but only serves in clacking his teeth, “Settling right.” Jaskier rubs the top of his belly, the spot below his sternum where it starts its gentle curve outward. The intensity of Geralt’s gaze as he watches the motion makes Jaskier self-conscious and he drops his hand, abandoning the little comfort it was providing. 

Without a word Geralt rises and Jaskier knows he’s finally done it, this was the final act that forces the Witcher to leave him and really who could blame him? It’s much to his surprise when Geralt returns moments later, taking the seat next to Jaskier rather than resuming his own, replacing the now empty bowl with a tankard of...water?

“What?” Jaskier starts, not understanding.

“Drink.” The man eyes the clear liquid suspiciously, really the last thing he thinks he should be doing right now is adding more to his stomach. 

“I...hic...really...hic—” Each jostle wears him down a bit more and Jaskier smacks his open hand against the tabletop, releasing the pain the hiccups bring. 

“ _Drink._ ” There’s no arguing when Geralt gets that tone and Jaskier’s fairly certain that if he doesn’t Geralt will be more than happy to _help_ him drink it. It’s as he’s bringing the cup to his lips that Geralt adds, “Quickly.” Jaskier knows he looks skeptical but he also trusts that Geralt wouldn’t do anything that would harm him. Intentionally. 

Geralt watches the pale column of Jaskier’s throat as he takes long swallow after long swallow, all but slamming the cup back onto the table with ragged breaths when he’s finished.

“Is this some subtle hint? Trying to improve my lung capacity?” It doesn’t land where Jaskier wants, the taunt coming out more breathy as he pants around his aching fullness. 

“That is one area you need not improve.” Jaskier looks pleased with himself for the breath Geralt takes before continuing, “They are gone are they not?” Jaskier would swear Geralt looks smug but really the Witcher is just grateful his bard is no longer in pain, especially not one brought upon by his own hand. 

Geralt studies Jaskier, taking in his bard’s slumped shoulders and the heavy lidded eyes. “Our room is upstairs.” Jaskier nods with reluctance, eyeing the staircase tucked along the wall. Of course it would be _up_ stairs. With a heaved breath Jaskier pushes to his feet, pressing a hand to his stomach as the contents shift and settle lower. 

He lets Geralt take the lead, people easily parting as Jaskier sticks close behind, tugging down his doublet when it insists on riding up. The stairs are just wide enough for them to go up shoulder to shoulder if Jaskier stays one step ahead, unfortunately his aching stomach has other ideas. 

Geralt can’t place the noise at first, the din of the tavern receding behind him yet with each step this unplaceable noise grows louder. The Witcher frowns, his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder stalling him on the next stair, too many unfortunate incidents having finally ingrained in the bard when to keep his mouth shut. Geralt tilts his head towards the landing, but the noise has ceased, releasing Jaskier’s shoulder they make it another two steps before he’s once again halting the bard, a low growl when the noise seems to taper off. 

“You can hear it, can’t you?” Jaskier mumbles the words to the stairs, unable to bring himself to turn and face Geralt. 

“What? _Oh_.” Now that it’s placed Geralt recognizes the sounds for what they are, Jaskier’s stomach as it tries to digest, protesting such activity.

“It’s your fault you know,” Jaskier stomps up the remaining steps and though he tries to keep his voice light Geralt can hear he strain underneath, sense the embarrassment coming off him in waves. “It’s all that water sloshing.” Jaskier was grateful when they reached the top of the stairs, not sure how many more he could take with his stomach churning as it was. 

Jaskier leans against the wall, gently rubbing his stomach as he waits for Geralt so he knows which room is theirs, using the time to swallow down the sick that threatens to rise. Geralt frowns at his stalling but before he can ask Jaskier staggers through the door, dropping himself onto the bed.

"Unngh." Jaskier clutches his belly, willing the contents to settle. For all his bulk Geralt is barely a whisper upon the edge of the bed, only when Jaskier feels his fingers begin slipping the straining fastenings do the bards eyes snap open.

"What _mmph_." Jaskier startles back, his stomach protesting the sudden jerk halting the retreat. Geralt isn't deterred, simply moves with the motion, freeing the remaining clasp the heavy fabric falls open. Jaskier takes the deepest breath he has since dressing that morning, humming in relief. Geralt rises, tugging a reluctant bard to sit up so he can slip the doublet off, frowning at Jaskier's hold on the hem of the light undershirt but leaves it on.

Jaskier admires Geralt undressing, the fire backlighting the toned curves, silvering his ivory hair. It's with a predatory grin that Geralt eases himself back into the bed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders he pulls Jaskier into him. Geralt wasn't one to show affection in public unless you counted ensuring Jaskier didn't get eaten by monsters or pummeled by villagers, but when they were alone Geralt ensured that Jaskier knew he was his. Jaskier happily tucks himself into Geralt, temporarily forgetting his embarrassment in lieu of the comfort he knows the Witcher's hold will bring.

Though they're fainter now that he's stopped moving, Geralt can still hear the protesting in Jaskier's stomach causing him such distress. He settles his hand softly on the roundest part, gently rubbing in ever widening circles, pausing when Jaskier stiffens under the touch.

Jaskier had started to drift off, between an overfull belly and the security of his Witcher's arms after days of travel his body was more than willing for slumber. He arches into Geralt's soothing touch before his sleep-addled mind realizes just why it feels so good, understanding causing him to tense. Geralt’s hand stalls but doesn't move and Jaskier thinks that's almost worse, warmth permeating from where it rests, the memory of how good the caress felt weakens his tongue and he murmurs, "Feels good." It comes out a pout and though he can't see it with his head tucked under Geralt's chin, the Witcher smiles, huffing a small laugh when Jaskier shifts impatiently when he doesn't immediately start again.

Jaskier drowsily argues himself away from shame, it was Geralt's fault, a thought he'd already shared, so really the Witcher _should_ be soothing him.

It doesn't take long for the ever widening circles to draw Jaskier's shirt up, his hold on the hem forgotten. Geralt frowns at the way the his pants dig into the pale flesh, the skin red in its abuse, with one gentle tug the laces are undone, Jaskier's belly filling the space. Without a thought Geralt gently rubs the soft underbelly, gentle as he's sure it is tender.

"Does it hurt? Do you need a salve?" Not for the first time this night does Jaskier tense in Geralt's arms, only this time he can't see the panic in the bard's eyes. 

"Nnn...no." Jaskier swallows hard. It didn't hurt, in fact it felt wonderful, the pinch that had only grown as the night progressed now eased and Geralt's careful fingers all too close and tender were having an unexpected affect as Jaskier wills himself to calm but it seems his body has other ideas and Geralt's amused _hmm_ burns his cheeks. 

Geralt shifts, sliding his arm from around Jaskier's shoulders he straddles the smaller man, careful to keep the weight off him. Any hope Jaskier had of taming himself disappears at the sight of muscled thighs straddling him as Geralt pulls him up, slipping the undershirt that's been hiding a multitude of sins over his head.

Geralt admires Jaskier laid before him, eyes peering up at him, want and need clouding their blue depths. Cheeks that have filled out so they're no longer gaunt, the slight belly that's just starting to spill onto pale thighs. _Safe. Cared for_.

With a growl Geralt descends, hands roaming over unfamiliar curves that were once sharp angles, lips still sweet from the apples. Cupping Jaskier's head he eases him back, slipping his tongue between the bard's lips, tasting the songs that linger there.

Once laid back Geralt trails kisses across Jaskier's softening jaw, down the column of his throat, bared as Jaskier tilts his head back, a keening whine of need escaping. Continuing across his chest, pausing to nip at the dusky nipples and lap in the shallow belly button. " _Mmm."_ His discontent at finding Jaskier still wearing pants doesn't last long as Jaskier bucks his hips up, mewls of dismay as long fingers caress his belly. Geralt wastes no time divesting him of his boots and pants, taking a moment to appreciate his bard, naked and needing.

“What do you want?” Jaskier bucks his hips at Geralt’s question, limbs sluggish as he tries to turn onto his side, push himself up, “I want you in me, fill me up.” Geralt adores the sight of Jaskier on his hands and knees, the curve of his ass looking all the more delicious in firelight. 

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to open Jaskier, the last thing he ever wants to do is cause him harm, especially harm for his pleasure. He teases his tip at Jaskier’s entrance, liking the way he squirms, the pleading noises he makes the moment before he’s thrusting back, seating Geralt deep inside him. 

“ _Oooh!”_ Jaskier’s pleased moan nearly finishes Geralt but he has more control of himself and sets a rhythm even as he reaches around, running a thumb over Jaskier’s weeping head. 

“Want me to pull out?” The image of Jaskier’s face pinched tight with pain is still too fresh and the idea that his pleasure might trigger cramps is enough to stall Geralt.

“Don’t...you..dare.” Jaskier pants the words, so close to his own release. Geralt spills deep inside Jaskier moments before the bard mewls his pleasure, unable to stop himself as he rubs a hand over the man’s come-slicked belly, _very well cared for_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments! I was so nervous posting this, that I was in the vast minority who wants soft Jaskier but here you all are! I appreciate every comment/kudo/emoji/random outburst and look froward to hearing what you think of this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt rests back on his heels, hating his monstrous form, even the gentlest of intentions brought the one he loved nothing but pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last warning, though if you've made it this far I feel like it's your own damn fault and you should read it just to spite yourself. Consider it my version of Darwinism. If you haven't figured out the warning well...evolution take you.

It had taken a decent amount of arguing to convince Geralt that he should walk alongside Roach rather than ride, though Jaskier was rather pleased when the Witcher finally relented. Experience should have taught him that while he may think two moves ahead Geralt is always, _always_ , two beyond that. 

Lunch turns into quite the affair with Geralt passing more and more bits Jaskier’s way, keeping the bard talking to keep him absently eating, so lost in detailing the song he’s working on. 

“You…” Jaskier’s narrow eyes and protest come from his place on the ground where he’d sprawled, once grateful for the reprieve from walking now finds a hindrance as he tries to rise, uncomfortably full stomach weighing him down. A raised eyebrow is the only thing he gets from Geralt, though the Witcher knows exactly what accusation lies in that word, _yes, him_. 

Geralt gifts his smirk to Roach as he secures their saddle bags, composing his features before he turns and offers a hand to Jaskier, hauling the bard to his feet before leading him to Roach. Jaskier searches for a protest but the prospect of walking, any distance let alone to the next town sees him mounting Roach with less agility than months past. 

With barely a jostle, Geralt fits himself behind Jaskier, his arm settling itself about the bard's waist as it always has and Jaskier scowls at the road ahead as his Witcher’s hand cups the small belly that’s begun to spill into his lap, Geralt’s thumb tenderly rubbing circles just below his belly button. 

The road to the next town is long and Jaskier spends it turning over the past months and Geralt’s increasing fascination and seeming concern with his eating, deciding that two can play that game. 

o~O~o

It didn't take long for Jaskier to realize Geralt enjoyed _larger_ men. 

Geralt watches Jaskier struggle through the many plates he’d ordered, waiting until the bard slumps, back arching as he searches for relief before sliding his own untouched dish over, the challenge in the raise of his eyebrow. 

Jaskier looks ready to weep at the prospect but it’s the promise in the quirk of Geralt’s lips that has him hunching over his stomach, resting his forearm on the table, taking bite after bite, eyes never straying from Geralt. 

For all his bravado the bard’s misery was mounting. Subtly shifting his arm off the table, he begins rubbing the taut side of his belly, swearing he’s growing with each forced bite, cheeks burning when he feels the ties of his leggings snap. 

Geralt frowns at Jaskier’s sudden embarrassment, confused by the shame clouding his features. “If–” Geralt starts but one look from the bard silences him. The scrape of Jaskier’s fork signals an end to his endeavor, the utensil clattering to the table as Jaskier drops back into the chair, hands hovering over his stomach as he fears the slightest pressure will split him open.

“ _Fuck_.” Seeing just what he wrought has Geralt wanting little more than to haul Jaskier to their room.

Jaskier’s smirk at Geralt’s obvious undoing lasts mere moments before the first, of what the bard fears will be a fit, hiccup escapes. Jaskier’s helpless to stifle the whimper that escapes as he clutches his stomach, willing them to not start, without a word Geralt rises and heads for the bar, silently cursing himself for this being the one night he hadn't ordered water.

Jasker watches Geralt long enough to know he’s made a noise of annoyance as the way in front of him parts, dirty looks are cast until they catch site of The Witcher before letting his eyes close, focusing on breathing around the dull throb in his stomach, starting when a familiar voice taunts, “You look _very_ well kept.” 

With a sigh blue eyes crack open, tilting his head back he looks up the svelte form, “Yennefer. Thought someone would have murdered you by now.” 

“They’ve tried. I see you’ve finally found some meat for those pies of yours.” Jaskier gives Yennefer an appraising look, the sorceress ducking to press a kiss to his cheek that he returns. It’d been a night with too many drinks and too little food in the bard when he drunkenly admitted to Yennefer Geralt’s barb about his songs. Yennefer had sobered him on the spot before taking his chin, making Jaskier feel like a scolded child, eyes boring into his as she said, “Mark my words Julian, he cares for you and he fears that he does.” Jaskier called it owing, Geralt preferred the connotation of blame, but she was the reason they had finally gotten together.

“Yennefer.” Geralt eyes the sorceress, looking from her to Jaskier and back again, sensing nothing out of the ordinary he’s relieved, they could go from bosom buddies to wet cats in a well placed word. He eyes Jaskier as he takes a seat and sets the water before him, relieved to find a fit hadn’t started.

“Geralt, I see you’ve been doing _well._ ” She arches an eyebrow, taunting, before she slips into the chair next to Jaskier, resting one elbow on the table she uses her other hand to gently rub the bard’s belly. Jaskier arches into her hand, the motion soothing the ache, his stretched skin sensitive. 

“If you need an oil for the stretchmarks I’d be happy to make you one up, can’t have you marring that pretty skin of yours.” Yennefer offers, heat burning Jaskier’s cheeks at the honest concern wrapped in a barb as most of the sorceress' concern was. Jaskier hadn’t missed the white and red striations growing like vines over his thickening hips and belly, ghostly white ones like scars had started down his thighs. 

“ _Mmm._ ” Golden eyes flash as they watch Yennefer’s hand and the effect it has on Jaskier, the bard blushing as his arousal grows. Jaskier had noticed his body’s visceral reaction to having his full belly rubbed, Geralt shifting in the night had seen him spending himself in his drawers like a youth.

“That’s...all…” Jaskier pants the taunt, only exciting Geralt more.

Without a word Geralt rises, the predatory way he looks at Jaskier making the bard nervous. “Good night, Yenna” When Jaskier makes no motion to rise, all but plants himself in the chair, Geralt frowns. 

Fine.

Geralt hauls Jaskier to his feet, surprised by the weight of the formerly slight man. Jaskier protest is cut off as his new center of balance nearly sends him to the floor in his scramble. It’s in this struggle that Geralt notices the broken ties, the familiar blush returning as the bard cradles his belly, hoping to hide the broken ties and growing problem behind his hand, golden eyes flaring as they meet surprised blue. 

“Have a _good_ night, bard.” There’s a smirk to Yennefer’s lips that confirms Jaskier’s fear, she knew _exactly_ what affect her touch did to him. 

Jaskier helplessly waddles alongside Geralt, the Witcher’s hand in the small of his back guiding him, though he’s relieved their room is near, his glutted stomach vocal in protesting each sway of his hips. Jaskier looks pregnant, he _feels_ pregnant, the mass inside him churning, protesting each step, his hands roam his sides, seeking relief as gas bubbles ripple the surface.

When they finally approach the door to their room Geralt moves past him, holding it open for his bard to pass. Jaskier expects Geralt to stow him inside, ensuring he can’t be more of an embarrassment before disappearing for the night, possibly to Yennefer. He doesn’t look at the Witcher as he waddles past, overly aware of how much space he takes up in the narrow hall and doorway, his shoulders dropping at the sound of the door falling shut. 

With a sigh he hefts his belly, hoping for a momentary reprieve to his aching back, silently chastising himself for his foolishness. Why would someone like Geralt, the great Witcher of Riviera bed a bloated bard? 

“ _Ungh!_ ” Jaskier’s yelp comes out more a surprised wheeze as his compressed lungs fight for room. 

“Was this not for me?” Geralt steps back from where he’d pressed himself against Jaskier’s back, hand grazing his the front of his stiffened pants, circling the bard, predatory.

“For you?” Jaskier’s laugh is incredulous. “ _For you?_ Why else would I eat myself to bursting? Not as though you haven’t enjoyed your little game. Run along now, I’m sure there’s some…” Yennefer’s name almost slips from his lips, “Wench that would be delighted to be bed by you.” Jaskier’s normally haughty demeanor is somewhat hindered by his inability to swagger off and the breathy delivery of the scathing words.

Geralt’s only response is the distinctly _him_ noise before he’s crowding Jaskier, nimble fingers easing the clasps holding his straining vest closed. “What are you?” Jaskier’s protest is half hearted, his main concern that this is just some cruel taunt, that after years of being together Geralt had finally grown tired of him.

“Do you not enjoy bedding me anymore?” Golden eyes narrow at the stubborn clasps, the fabric too strained to slip them free without undue pressure on Jaskier’s stomach. 

“Don’t–” Jaskier bites the word out, taking an unbalanced step backward, away, Geralt frowns at the retreat as he’d thought this had been Jaskier’s ploy all along, yet tears well in betrayed eyes. Geralt plays the words back, grimacing at what they imply. “ _Mmm, fuck._ ” Geralt mutters, rounding on the bard, “The games were yours.” 

Jaskier falters at the realization, he knew Geralt wasn’t vocal in his feelings, “You,” Jaskier swallows, debating rather he really wants to ask this, wants to know the answer. “You like me like this?” He doesn’t have to elaborate, his spectacle at dinner leading to him standing here, distended belly and burst leggings obvious enough.

In a swift motion with a small knife Geralt cuts the many ties holding Jaskier’s straining vest closed, freed from it’s confines his stomach surges forward, Jaskier’s sigh of relief morphing into a complaint at his ruined clothing clearly exasperates Geralt who simply mutters, "Need new ones anyway." 

Jaskier's cheeks burn at the words, he knew he'd been gaining weight, the outward curve of his belly so unusual it was hard to miss. He'd naively hoped that his tunics just _felt_ tight, that his stomach straining against them after each meal was noticeable only to him. 

Geralt frowns at the shame he smells washing over Jaskier, if the Witcher notices the bard's hold he takes no care as he pulls the billowing undershirt roughly over his head, discarding it at their feet as Jaskier's stare bores holes into the the opposite wall, not wanting to see the disappointment in his Witcher's eyes. 

If he had looked he would have seen Geralt grimace at the angry red seams imprinting his bard’s pale belly, before fingers ghost over the tender flesh, Jaskier hisses through his teeth as he fights not to shy away. Geralt means to steady Jaskier but his hands are traitorous and cradle his belly instead, a heavy, warm weight in his hands, surprising firm when he knows the bard to be pliable. 

It's this silence that draws the Witcher's attention, blue eyes welling with tears staring straight ahead. 

"Jas?" There's such remorse in his voice it breaks the bard's tenuous hold, tears trailing down his cheeks." _Fuck_. I did not mean to harm you further." Geralt rests back on his heels, hating his monstrous form, even the gentlest of intentions brought the one he loved nothing but pain.

Jaskier's barking laugh confuses the Witcher, brows furrowing as he watches the bard swipe the tears from his cheeks. Though they had traveled together for years, it took months for Geralt to touch Jaskier, afraid he would harm the smaller man and now Jaskier was the one afraid of being touched.

“Hurt me?” Jaskier’s incredulous tone only serves to confuse Geralt more as Jaskier shakes his head. “You’ve yet to harm me, but what I don’t understand is...this?” Jaskier gestures down himself. He’d started the night sure of the game, but with each plate he finished the doubt crept in, filling the spaces food couldn’t reach. 

It was a rare thing for Jaskier to be without words and Geralt knew just how badly tonight had shaken his bard, knew the fear masquerading as jealousy he harbored that Geralt would leave him for Yennefer.

“I,” Geralt starts, his logic from that day in the lake now looking foolish but Jaskier still has tears in his eyes and looks ready to flee at too harsh a syllable, so he tries what Jaskier is always telling him to do, _Use your words_. 

“You look…cared for.” Geralt settles on the words, his head tilting to the side in a look that always sets Jaskier’s stomach flipping, a look given only to him, filled with fondness and love. 

Jaskier turns the words over, having heard a similar iteration from Yennefer he’d taken as mocking sounds painfully sincere from Geralt but makes absolutely no sense.

“So,” Jaskier starts, not entirely sure where he’s intending to go with this but that’s never stopped him before. “You _do_ like this but only because I look _kept?_ ” The word is all but spit, distaste clear. Geralt moves slowly, reaching out he rests his hands on Jaskier’s softened hips that are just starting to widen and Jaskier allows it though he does shift under the touch, embarrassed how they round over the top of his pants. 

Geralt tips his face down, golden eyes searching the space between them as he gathers his words. “You gave up an easy life to travel with me, to nearly get yourself killed every day on the road.” Geralt pauses.

“Always so dramatic–” Jaskier starts.

“ _Fuck Jaskier_! I mistook you for a skeleton in the lake. You are not meant for this and I won’t lose you to it.” Geralt seethes the words, his grip inadvertently tightening and only Jaskier’s squirming makes him realize his near bruising hold. Geralt drops his hands as though scalded, nearly tripping over himself as he backs away but Jaskier matches him step for step, putting his own arms around Geralt to halt his retreat.

Jaskier can vaguely recall the day Geralt’s referring to, or at least the one he thinks he is, it’s been a long while since Jaskier found himself bathing in a lake, shortly before Geralt’s insistence on inns in each town. 

“You care about me,” Jaskier begins.

“I love you.” Blue eyes search golden ones, seeing the fear that lingers there, not only of unintentionally harming him again, but of being rejected by yet another person. 

Jaskier’s composed songs that make the hardest mothers weep, that have brought Kings to their knees and soldiers to a halt in battle, but he’s no words for this. 

He steps into Geralt, the back of the Witcher’s shins meet the bed and with nowhere else to go he sits, Jaskier straddling him as he laces his hands behind Geralt’s neck. It’s not as smooth as Jaskier hoped, his rounded stomach forcing him further back on Geralt’s lap and he thinks the Witcher means never to touch him again but then familiar fingers are on his waist, easily supporting his weight. 

Jaskier has to lean in now for their lips to meet, his cheeks burning in embarrassment as he thinks how different this had been months before, their fronts pressed flush together, Geralt standing with Jaskier’s legs wrapped around his waist, turning them around so he could lay him on the bed. 

Jaskier tries to remind himself that Geralt wanted this and it’s as though Geralt can read his mind as his hands slip lower, cupping his perfectly rounded ass the only warning he gets before Geralt rises, the softest grunt has Jaskier burying his face in Geralt’s neck.

“Jaskier.” His name a gentle coaxing that has Jaskier lifting his head, Geralt holding him over the bed with ease, the look in his eyes telling Jaskier he would stay like this till dawn if that’s what he needed. Jaskier uses his laced hands to pull Geralt closer for a kiss, their mouths never parting until Jaskier is gently laid upon the bed, Geralt hovering as he studies the man before him, the faintest traces of trepidation still marring his features.

Jaskier’s nimble fingers begin working at the ties on Geralt’s tunic, he’ll show his Witcher his faith in him, his love. What was once an easy feat is hindered by the taut swell of his stomach, intending to curl himself forward as is habit Jaskier falls back to the bed with a soft grunt, one hand abandoning the tires in favor of soothing his stomach. 

Geralt smirks and straightens, offering a hand up to Jaskier who narrows his eyes but accepts it. He’s barely on his feet before Geralt is on him, tongue teasing Jaskier’s as he works the snug pants off plush hips, Jaskier taking advantage of the angle to work at Geralt’s own ties. 

Shame is just starting to eat it’s way through Jaskier when Geralt pulls him close, a hand cupping the back of his head the other around his waist as his toned thigh parts Jaskier thicker ones. Jaskier claws at Geralt’s back, clutching the man tighter as he grinds into him, his achingly sensitive stomach pressed into Geralt’s defined muscles, a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain. 

Geralt encourages Jaskier back onto the bed, keeping him pressed close as he kneels over him, Jaskier weakly rutting against him, breathy moans escaping with each buck. There’s such naked _want_ on Jaskier’s face that Geralt doesn’t make him wait long, slicking his fingers with precome he opens Jaskier before sheathing himself in one smooth motion, Jaskier arching off the bed, “Ger... _alt!”_

Geralt sets an easy rhythm, admiring the site before him, Jaskier’s head thrown back, one hand fisting the sheet while the other clutches Geralt’s hip, the soft clapping of his rounded stomach against Geralt’s accompanying Jaskier’s soft pleasured moans. 

Geralt rests a large warm hand on Jaskier’s stomach, his fingers splayed out, palm over his deep belly button, the gentlest of pressures right before he fills him, feels Jaskier arch up into his touch as his own seed spills up Geralt’s front. They stay that way for a long moment, each relishing the feel of the other.

Jaskier softly whines when Geralt moves off the bed, but his limbs are too heavy to do anything beyond watch him through heavy lids. Geralt returns with a warm cloth, cleaning them both before he climbs in bed, Jaskier tucking himself into his side before Geralt’s fully settled himself. “ _Hmm."_

“Oh don’t start, you love it.” Jaskier’s words are sleep slurred, his belly having settled into a comfortable fullness and Geralt’s overwarm body soothing beside him. Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt’s smile at his words but he doesn’t have to to know it’s there, he just nuzzles deeper, breathing in the scent that is uniquely Geralt as he murmurs. “I love you.” 

Jaskier hums his pleasure at the feel of Geralt pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, arms tightening around him as he pulls him impossibly closer. Not opening his eyes Jaskier fumbles until his fingers find the arm not wrapped around him, following it down until his fingers tangle with Geralt’s and he pulls it to rest on his stomach, his desire clear. 

Geralt rubs Jaskier’s stomach, slow circles that grow larger and then smaller, the path ever changing, long after Jaskier’s breaths have evened out into sleep. 

o~O~o

Geralt hears the sound of something being set at their door before a knock sounds and footsteps retreat back down the hall. Jaskier is still tucked into his side, one pale leg thrown over his, belly still swollen from the previous night’s feast pressed flush against his ribs. He’s loathe to disturb him but people don’t normally leave things outside his door, nothing good anyway. 

Using the arm Geralt has wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulders he eases himself away, bleary blue eyes slitting open, a frown marring his cherubic features as he protests, “Just one night and then slip away in the morning?” The words are slurred with sleep but draw a laugh from Geralt all the same.

“I want the rest of my nights and mornings with you.” Jaskier hums a pleased noise before nuzzling back into the bed. Geralt crosses to the door, giving Jaskier a perfect view of his still very naked Witcher. “Not that I’m opposed but I don’t think the innkeeper’s wife will ever be able to bed her husband again. There may be a song in that…” Geralt frowns over his shoulder at Jaskier, seeing the lascivious way the bard is eyeing him he understands and shrugs, the hallway sounds empty enough. 

Cracking open the door Geralt frowns and swings it fully open, stooping to pick up the tray laden with enough food for three grown men, or one ambitious bard. It’s not the ample food that gives Geralt pause, but the small pot tucked in the corner, a tag around its neck scrawled with familiar writing, balancing the tray in one hand Geralt pinches the paper, tilting it so he can read it:

_Can’t have that perfect skin of his marred._

_~Y_

It takes some encouraging from Geralt to rouse Jaskier, any willingness the bard had to rise fled when he realized he wouldn’t be propped by Geralt at his back. 

“We have a gift from Yennefer.” Jaskier perks at those words, intrigue turning wary at the mention the sorceress but the tantalizing smells wafting from the tray have him sitting up against the headboard. Geralt settles the tray in easy reach, noting the sheet Jaskier’s pulled up to cover himself. 

Jaskier begins picking at breakfast, faltering when he notices Geralt just watching him, “Normally I would say looming isn’t a good look for you but,” Jaskier makes a point to slow his gaze as he looks Geralt over, an eyebrow raised in admiration. 

“ _Hmm.”_ Geralt carefully settles himself between Jaksier’s legs, plucking the jar off the tray Jaskier follows his movements, interested, tensing slightly when Geralt pulls the sheet down but with a grin, Geralt drags his tongue along one of the faint red marks, eliciting a shiver.

“You don’t…” Jaskier starts, torn at calling more attention to them and just willing his discomfort away.

“I want to.” Geralt lazily traces another one, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s, feeling his stomach jump as he takes stuttered breaths. Geralt takes his time, lavishing each stretchmark as Jaskier nibbles at breakfast before reaching for the small pot, setting the note aside with the lid. 

Surprisingly it smells spicy, Geralt hadn’t expected Yennefer to mask the flowery scent but it seems she had remembered his heightened senses and for one misguided reason or another extended this kindness. Geralt dips his fingers, tracing the lines he’d so lovingly lapped at moments before.

“Cold!” Jaskier yelps, leaning back but Geralt just laughs, rubbing the streaks of lotion in, the warmth from his hand soothing the chill. Prepared now, Jaskier doesn’t shy away from Geralt’s ministrations, rather settles into them, humming his pleasure he plucks the scrap of paper from the lid, reading over the words.

“She’s not wrong.” Jaskier announces, drawing Geralt’s attention, “It would be a tragedy to ruin it.” Geralt hums his agreement and Jaskier thinks that maybe being kept and cared for isn’t such a terrible thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I hope you enjoyed it or at least weren't too disappointed.  
> I appreciate every comment/kudo/emoji/random outburst and look froward to hearing what you think of this final chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Because in these dark times (and all times) we need more soft Jaskier.  
> Kudos, comments, emojis and random outbursts greatly appreciated and highly encouraged!


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